That Girl from Derwent dwells on the value of religion this Christmas.
That Girl from Derwent has learned a few more things about prejudice since moving up North.
That Girl From Derwent reckons if you're going to be offensive, you should find a better reason.
That Girl from Derwent considers why it is that some words have wider implications than others.
There’s a Frasier episode that I occasionally think about more than I tend to think about most other episodes of Frasier. I can’t exactly remember the ins-and-outs of the episode but the concept is one which I’ve always found intriguing. Frasier is worried that his son is about to reach the moment when he realises his father isn’t perfect. Obviously, this blog isn’t going to be about my vague memories of a Frasier episode but it will be about my first memory of realising my father was imperfect.
My memory of the moment of realisation isn’t some grandiose failing on my dad’s behalf. Instead, it’s a pretty dull story. One day, when I was around four or five, I nagged my dad to take me to the park even though he’d been at work that morning. As I played, my dad sat on the bench at the side of the park. After a few minutes, I looked over to my dad to ensure he was watching how amazing I was at going down the slide. Unfortunately, he’d fallen asleep. I was obviously offended, how dare my father fall asleep rather than watch my stunning sliding skills? Other people had noticed and were snickering. I was both disappointed and embarrassed.
Looking back, I figure it was wrong to be embarrassed. My dad wasn’t asleep due to laziness or disinterest or some great flaw of character. He was more than likely asleep because he had a job working shifts in a labour-intensive job and had been dragged to the park by his rather impatient son as soon as he got home from work. There’s a slight possibility that working bizarre hours and returning home to a house of four children tired him out a little. Of course, such realisations weren’t so obvious when I was four. Instead of reacting with a mature awareness, I woke him up and then sulked until he bought me a Fab.
Obviously, since then, the necessary realisations have occurred. I’ve become aware that my dad, just like everyone else, is an imperfect person attempting not to make the worst choices in the situations he finds himself in. These attempts occasionally go awry and at times he makes what seem to be the worst of choices. However, these terrible choices are the ones that most make me remember that first memory of his imperfection. Nowadays, I am still disappointed but not embarrassed when he messes up.
Throughout the myriad of terrible choices my father has made during my teenage years, I’ve always considered how he probably was trying to make a good choice. How, in the same way he isn’t pure perfection, he also isn’t malicious. Maybe I’m being optimistic or crediting my father with more good intent than he actually has, but I tend to think the same way about most people. Viewing others as simple caricatures of good or evil is pretty futile.
People are complex, but this isn’t something you realise as a child. This is even truer concerning your parents. You like to think of them as representations of perfection. When you realise they aren’t, it begins a process of accepting people’s faults that probably lasts a lifetime. That first memory begins such a process and it’s why I consider it a pretty important memory.
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